XANADU
In Sellafield, did Nudear Fuels
A stately pleasure dome decree,
Where Calder, the sacred river ran,
Through dangers measureless to man,
Down to a radioactive sea.
WINDPOWER
Climbing out of the valley to the free mountains,
I made for the tower of Eglwysilan church,
where the cross was made safe in stone
and Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau was christened.
Buffeted by the wind, I watched the hills,
I viewed the heavens and there, in between,
they confronted me, like hypnotic crosses,
drawing my eye, dominating my horizon.
White wonders of the wide world,
above the green that was once black with coal,
anonymous and proud, they whirred,
mindless harvesters of the wind.
From winding wheels to wind wheels,
from deep communities to desperate individuals,
shredding us with free-market gales,
they command us to bow down and forget.
High above the valleys, distant from the people
they quietly change our mindscape,
but they remain symbols of our rulers,
taming our hills for profit.
Old King Coal
I remember,I can't forget,cold killer pits,
damp, gassy, dangerous, seams,
ready to ignite, where every light
could explode into a ball of flame.
I can't remember when the Universal exploded,
because it was before my time,
but I remember,I remember,old Mrs.Jones,
who saw the processions down the valley,
forty coffins at a time,
a generation of lost fathers.
Four hundred and thirty nine,
died in that Senghenydd mine,
in that grave of fire,
leaving an anger,
never resolved.
I remember,I can never forget,cold killer tips.
A dark,brooding mountain of slag,
clinging,piggy back on the hills,
soaring downwards on a cold wet morning.
I don't remember where I was,
when Kennedy was shot in Dallas,
but I remember,I'll always remember,the Friday
when a cold killer tip slipped
and roared down on Aberfan,
to bury a generation.
Like a tumour,it burst,
laying waste the valley,
lancing my memory,
beginning an anger,
never resolved.
I remember,I still remember,black coal tips
and lines of wire,ski-lifts of slag,
always moving,tipping,
and the winding wheels,whirring.
I don't remember,exactly when they stopped
and the miners strike began,
but I remember,I still remember,the year
when we all dug deep,
fought the Tory blitzkrieg,
when the dragon roared,one last time,
for the last generation?
We were beaten,clubbed to the ground,
by a police rnachine,
paper lies, mean minds,
firing my anger,
never resolved.
I remember,I still can see,clean green hills,
ancient meadows, mosses and trees,
not raped by greed for coal,
but kissed by rain and sun.
I don't remember when they cast them open
first turned green to black,
but,I remember,I'll never forget,the time
when we fought back.
It was only yesterday - and today,
that the struggle began,again,
to save a future generation.
We are not conquered yet
and never shall be.
Only justice can
end our anger
and I be resolved.
DWR CYMRU
The sign said it all.
Dwr Cymru,Welsh Water.
So I inspected my investment.
A lake and a dam.
There is no village beneath,
just Welsh land.
The bland reservoir,
curtained by trees,
neat like it should be.
Tidy,mind,
these still waters,
nature's gift of leisure,
bound by fishing rights,
sold off for pleasure
Down the valley,
I followed the pipe-line,
traced the vein of life,
to Cefn and Merthyr,
down to the cramped houses,
to the single mothers
and families scratching
for money from the tips
that were once a decent wage.
Scrimping and saving
in order to survive,
not to live, mind you,
but to pay the bills,
sip the drips and exist.
Down the valley,
I had to go, down to the seas, again,
not for the lonely sea or the sky,
but to see the brown slick and the surf
thrown up on the beaches,
of condoms and colostomy bags
for the seagulls to enjoy.
Down to the bottom of the sea
went the sea from our bottoms,
making money,brass from muck,
Gold from shit,for
Dwr Cymru - or was it
Cachwyr Cymru?
The sign said it all,
on the post-modern
office block in Cardiff Bay,
with gleaming windows,
shielding the accountants
who search their screens
for greater profits,
screwing the figures down,
pumping the bills up,
making money from my investment.
Dwr Cymru,the sign said.
Welsh Water,stolen by our rulers,
sold off to the City of London,
but still claiming to be ours.
Metromorphosis
I drove into a nightmare,
as the traffic shuffled forward
from green to red lights and back.
I was part of a metallic monster.
Each vehicle had its own brain,
each foot or wheel was separate,
but we had become a centipede,
threaded down the road
like a single being.
I was in a nightmare,
a locust in a swarm,
an infestation of cockroaches,
in various steel boxes,
locked into a single mass,
acting separately, and together,
when a human being got in our way,
crossed our path, turned the lights red
and forced the centipede to stop.
An articulated lorry sat,
broken, open, in the lay-by,
like a preying mantis,
with bluebottles looking it over.
I slid past it, as a bumble-bee bus
buzzed behind me
and a ladybird beetle
stuttered, switched lanes,
and fluttered off down the path.
But, as I sat in the car,
fuming at the traffic lights,
I turned to look at the grass verge,
saw a dragonfly zoom by and realised
that there is no future in cars.
When the traffic has long gone,
when the insects rule,perhaps,
the ants will parody traffic
by stopping for humans.